


Whom Love's Beauteous Darts Wound

by OnyxDrake9



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-09-16 02:11:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9269069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxDrake9/pseuds/OnyxDrake9
Summary: Lace Harding's mum always warned her about finding men like Varric Tethras attractive, and yet the storyteller has ensnared her with his charm. Yet Bianca Davri casts a long shadow...





	

**Author's Note:**

> I asked my fic group about rare pairs and someone suggested Varric and Lace. And while in my headcannon, Varric remains unassailable, I was up to the challenge. Enjoy!

We all recall the first time we see the one who steals our hearts. For me it was unexpected, the way the clouds part briefly on an overcast day to permit a flash of sunlight. I’d come to the Inquisition in Redcliffe, when its soldiers had required guides in the area. For me it was second nature to lead the patrols through the narrow valleys and mountain passes. Yet be they elf, human or dwarf, none of them stood out for me until I saw _him_.

Oh, most of us surfacers had heard of the Tethras family. Maker’s breath, I’d even _read_ a few of Varric’s books despite their purple prose. Yet I’d never in a hundred ages imagined I’d ever _see_ him let alone _talk_ to him. Granted, at the time I hadn’t known. He was merely tagging along with an Inquisition party I welcomed to the Hinterlands one bright summer’s day. The Herald of Andraste was among them, yet I’d not seen the man—an _elf_ I’d been told. Of all things. One of the Dalish.

But that’s another story for another time.

Point was, Charter’d given me the honour of welcoming the Herald’s party to the camp, but I’d been called away to take a message a bird had just brought in from one of the scouts down near the Crossroads, so I’d been a bit preoccupied.

And there _he_ was.

No, not the Herald, silly.

Oh, there were quite a few dwarven men serving with me, but none who caught my eye with that particular swagger. Mother always told me to mind a man who knows exactly what sort of effect he has on womenfolk, and I think that’s why I was cross with myself _because_ he’d made me catch my breath. Not just the swagger, but the fact that he was clean-shaven—unusual for a dwarven man by any standards—and he wore his hair like a human warrior, pulled back from his nape. That red tunic, unlaced to show off his other…assets. I’ve never truly been partial to men with chest hair but on him... Well. Enough said.

I admit it, the long hair kinda did it for me too in a big way, and while I don’t have quite his way with words to describe it, his hair’s that ruddy strawberry blond I’ve always been partial to. A woman may have her weaknesses, all right?

Here’s the kicker—I don’t think he even noticed me, dressed as I was just like all the other Inquisition folks in the subdued greens and mail (scouts are _supposed_ to blend into the environment, am I right?). His regard skimmed over me as he walked past, talking and laughing to that pasty bald-headed apostate elf who strolled into our camp a short while back without so much as a by your leave.

The talking part, however, came a bit later, and I admit it was so mundane now—he asked where the latrines were. I stammered, blushed a bit, but I don’t think he noticed (I hope).

As for first meetings, it can’t be more dull and boring than that. I’d wanted to chat to Fliss about it when we bedded down later, but she beat me to the punch. Apparently Varric had made _quite_ the impression on a good portion of the female portion of the Inquisition folks that very afternoon and, after I heard her gushing for a good quarter of an hour, felt it better to keep my opinion to myself.

There many young women among the scouts who were far better looking than me; what chance did I have? Besides, we were in the midst of armed conflict. Romance was strictly off the cards. Despite what everyone else did or said.

 _Looking_ wasn’t, and I would have to content myself by allowing myself to appreciate from afar.

All right, there is more to this story. Bear with me.

I’d written the man off as a cad, but the nature of our work meant that he hung out with the Herald a fair deal during those early days for all the main missions. Back then I was lead scout and all. So I got to see him, often, even if I kept my distance (not to forget that there was always a gaggle of giggling off-duty scouts hanging about his tent when he was back at camp for some well-deserved R&R).

But there was that one time, when we were headed off to go pick up some supply caches they’d discovered—some of which were stashed in some truly inaccessible spots—where the Herald insisted on accompanying us part of the way as he’d seen a Fade rift and it made sense for us to stick together.

I knew the footpath was hairy. Maker’s breath, I’d traversed it dozens of times during the past fortnight, but the night before it’d rained, and whether it was the moisture or a stray lightning bolt from the recent magical combat that had loosened the ground in the area, an entire section of the slope had sheared off mere hours before.

There was still enough path for us to take single file, but as I’ve stated earlier, it was hairy, as in sensible people would’ve turned around and found an easier route. Which we would’ve done, had it not been for the fact that it was late afternoon and we were all in a hurry.

We stood there, peering and muttering and figuring out who’d pluck up courage to go first.

The Herald seemed to have no regard for the dizzying plunge. In fact he stood there, his bare toes curled around the edge and was bent over _peering_ down. I mean, one stray misstep or stumble, and he’d become acquainted with some hard knocks, slides and bounces on his way down the ravine. With possibly fatal consequences. Ah, who’m I fooling. I don’t think anyone could survive that fall, and it creeped me out no end that he stood there so damned unconcerned.

But then again, the Dalish are all a little touched at times.

The Seeker was having none of the Herald’s nonsense, and looked as if she was ready to drag him back from the edge, and Solas was already heading a short way farther uphill to where a boulder jutted invitingly out over the chasm. I could already tell that would be our route, but I didn’t want to say anything just yet.

Did I mention that I hate heights?

I know, I know. Not a good quality for a lead scout. But anyhow…

Of he went, like a cursed mountain goat. Padding along the narrow ledge like it was one of the old imperial roads.

The Seeker gave a strangled cry and followed. Solas took the leap over that boulder and I had to look away, and then the others from my team went after the Seeker. That left only me and Varric, and by that stage my heart was in my throat and a cold sweat had broken out on my forehead.

Maker’s breath, that was a long way down.

“Beauty before brawn,” Varric said, and gestured as though we were at some courtly function.

I gulped, sucked in my breath. Looked down again. Wished I hadn’t.

Just perfect. Now I was looking like a right twat in front of the glib Varric Tethras, who’d no doubt spin some clever tale about my baulking at the edge like some half-broken mule.

“You go first, ser,” I said and crouched as if to tighten the laces on my boots.

He cocked his head to one side, regarding me with that quiet mischief in his eyes. “Imagine that. You’re afraid of heights.”

“Not. Afraid,” I gritted out. “Just very careful.” He must be having a quiet chuckle about the Inquisition scout who didn’t have a head for heights. Absolutely perfect.

He winked. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

“Thanks.”

He turned and studied the ledge. “You know, Fox, this ledge isn’t as bad as it appears from here.”

“Fox?”

Varric looked over his shoulder at me. “I give names to all the people I like. The way the sunlight catches your hair reminds me of a fox that I saw just yesterday.”

“Oh.” My face grew warm.

His laughter echoed in the ravine. Oh, he knew exactly the effect he was having on me and it didn’t seem to bother him. Then he held out his hand. “C’mon. I’ll hold your hand. You just concentrate on where you put your feet. Look _only_ at where you place your feet. Don’t look to the left. It’s really not that bad, honest.”

Truth be told, after that, I was a little better about heights. Whenever I feel uncomfortable, I think back to that day and consider how Varric would respond to the situation. And how his hand felt in mine. I didn’t want to say ‘like it belonged there’.

Over the months that followed, our conflict with the Red Templars, with Corypheus, meant that we were pushed to our limits. More often than not, I was out on the road, or forging ahead into hostile territory to set up camps. We lost Haven but gained Skyhold. We lost friends and made new ones. The uncertainty of our position made the enjoyment of life’s little pleasures all the sweeter.

Which is why my rare visits to Skyhold remain etched in my memory.

It’s not as if I didn’t ever see Varric. He was, in my mind and writ across my heart at least, most certainly out of reach to one like me. I saw, during those two or so years, dozens of ladies break their hearts over that man. I was determined not to be one of their number, though I could not deny the quickening of my pulse whenever he was near. His heart was spoken for, of that much I was certain. No point making myself ill over a man who doesn’t feel the same way as I do.

And Maker’s breath, were there some fine-looking men to look at, apart from Master Tethras. Oh, we all made eyes at the Inquisitor. I mean, we’d have had to be carved from stone not to (and that’s not to say he didn’t make the stones blush whenever he passed by—he had that effect on people).

Era’Tua was, plainly put, not what I had expected. He was a fine-boned, delicate creature who moved with the grace of one of those halla the Dalish keep. His hair was spun frost and the markings he had on his face looked like delicate feathers or weeds. He told me once (when I plucked up the courage to ask) that they were for his god named Falon’Din, and then told me a completely chilling tale about how his god was a friend to those who would go places where others feared to tread.

Kinda made sense when I look back now and consider everything he went through.

Yes. Before you ask. I kinda did have a _little_ bit of a crush on him too.

But that’s between you, me and these pages, all right?

Fliss and a few of the others had it bad for our Inquisitor as well, and we’d often share bawdy tales about what we would do with him should we have the chance (c’mon, we’re scouts, not a bunch of Chantry sisters). Imagine our shock and horror when it turned out that our darling had a thing for that Tevinter mage Dorian Pavus. (Who, by the way, had many of us flustered as well.) That backside…

I’ll leave it to your imagination how we made up stories about _those_ two. Suffice to say I’d suggest that even the esteemed Varric Tethras might blush down to his gorgeous strawberry blond roots.

I admit I’d been a little bit disappointed about the Dorian thing. The few times we’d had occasion to chat, he’d been extremely witty and had made me laugh—also he remembered my name, which is more than can be said for some of the other high-and-mighties in the Inquisition.

But when I had occasion to glimpse Era’Tua and Dorian have a quiet moment when they thought no one was watching, I’d have reason to smile. They both looked so deliriously happy I honestly couldn’t blame them. After all, during these uncertain times with everything we all went through, we deserved happiness—those of us who could snatch it from the jaws of evil.

Yet there was that one night in Skyhold where something _nearly_ happened between Varric and me. It was one of those rare balmy late-summer nights and we’d all just returned from the Western Approach and that awful incident at the Adamant Fortress. I was there when Varric asked the Inquisitor those fateful words: _Where is Hawke?_

And Era’Tua’s expression, as he realised the impact of his response—that just made my heart bleed. He dismounted, and I could see he’d wanted to go somewhere private, but Varric has always been a canny man and could read the bad news in every gesture, the slightest twitch.

Later, after my debriefing, I’d headed down to the Herald’s Rest with Fliss and the others—we were all serious in need of some R&R, when I saw Varric up on the mezzanine, away from his usual spot downstairs. He’d taken the smallest table and chair, right there in the corner near Sera’s rooms, and he was staring out the window, through that little broken pane they never quite got round to fixing during all the time that we served.

By now we’d all heard the full story about the Inquisitor’s miraculous escape from the Fade, and the sacrifice that had been made so that Alistair could return and attempt to rebuild the Grey Wardens.

And there was Varric, hunched slightly and with a dozen empty tankards before him. Ordinarily I’d give a man his space to mourn, but I remembered all too well that occasion when Ricard, a friend of mine back home, had lost his brother to bandits, and he’d sat just like that at over at the Smith’s Arms. We’d all let him be too, and the next morning we’d discovered he’d hung himself.

So I slipped away from my table, ostensibly to get another drink, but went to fetch two coffees instead, along with a half-dozen shortbread biscuits, and joined Varric at his table.

“Hey,” I said, and put down the mug before him.

He looked up at me with bleary, bloodshot eyes. “Fox.” His voice cracked on that one syllable.

“You look like you could use a coffee.” I didn’t wait to be invited to sit down and shifted into the seat opposite him. I suppressed my flinch as the beer spilled on the table soaked into my shirt.

Varric peered into the coffee mug, eyed the biscuits then let out a long sigh. “You know, Fox, you’re probably right. I’m tired of chasing everyone away. Third time’s the charm. First Sera then Blackwall, and now you. The Maker’s trying to tell me something.”

“Tell me about the first time you met Hawke,” I said as I took a sip of the bitter beverage. Ugh. Cabot still hadn’t improved on his brewing of the stuff. We had better at our camps.

It’s always touch and go when dealing with those who’re bereaved, but the best one can do is to let them talk. Nudge questions that remind them of the good times, the adventures, the love. Most importantly, be an audience: Listen.

Though Varric was heavy of heart and near drowned in his despair, he was still a storyteller, through and through, and for him to have an audience—even if it was a rapt audience of one—helped those little sliver of gold shine through. By the second mug of coffee he’d lost some of that haunted shadow to his person, and that old famous Tethras smile was right back.

The more he spoke, the more outrageous his accounts of Hawke’s exploits became. Sera slunk out of her room, and leaned against the jamb so she could listen. Sutherland and his crew shifted their table closer, their game of Wicked Grace forgotten. Others brought their drinks along and leaned against the railing, and I smiled quietly into my mug.

Not that Varric would’ve done something as awful as Ricard would’ve—he doesn’t strike me as the type—but I was glad that I’d done what I could to make him feel better. It was only when we noticed the greying of the dawn through the grimy windows that Varric realised he’d been talking all night. Everyone was still there.

He leaned back, a teary-eyed grin plastered on his face. “Well, I guess I have some letters to write.” He sighed, and for a moment the mists of sadness settled, but then he reached across the table to take my hand.

“Thank you, Fox. You are as crafty as you are beautiful.”

No. I did not quite melt into a puddle of goo at the bottom of my boots, but I came pretty damn close to doing so.

I wouldn’t exactly say we were bosom friends after this; you must understand things were _hectic_ during the run-up to the final conflict with Corypheus. I had my hands full with my work, but those times when Varric accompanied the Inquisitor out to where I’d already set up camp—those were good times, perhaps because they were brief and we were intent on finding positives during the conflict.

War isn’t funny, it isn’t great—not like they have you believe in the stories. You live day to day, seeing your friends and colleagues eviscerated by Red Templars or incinerated by demons, and you feel as if any moment this too may be your fate. You become the walking dead, and every time you are spared, it’s an exhalation, a small miracle. Until the next the alarm is called during the dead hours of the night.

Varric and I were among many who were all too aware that every occasion we saw each other may well be the last. This lent a particular intensity to our interchanges—perhaps a quiet conversation over coffee at the change of shift (I swear the man never slept) or when they’d return, often bruised and a bit battered about the edges from a mission. His face would light up whenever he saw me and he’d offer a “Hey, Fox!”

Fliss would rib me, suggest that there was more to our interchanges than there were to the eye, but I could see she and the others were more than just a little bit slightly jealous.

But he was spoken for, as I was to find out.

To the eye, Bianca Davri isn’t a lush beauty, even by dwarven standards. Oh, yes, I found out her name within the hour of her arrival. There’s a hardness to Bianca’s gaze and her mouth is set with a bitter twist. But there’s a nobility to her that I can’t follow, and she walks with the self-assurance of a predator.

I hated her the moment she inquired where she could find Master Tethras. Maybe it was the way she purred his name, rolled it off her tongue as if it were hers.

_Jealousy makes you nasty._

I was on my way to the spymaster—a debriefing I was most assuredly _not_ looking forward to (Leliana scares me shitless)—when all I wanted was to keep an eye on Bianca. And the spymaster seemed inordinately pleased with my off-the-cuff remark about the dwarven woman who’d slunk in to see Varric.

I was less than enthusiastic when I was put on the detail for the Inquisitor’s little trip to Valammar. All Bianca’s doing. Carta, lyrium smuggling. Red lyrium, to boot. The fallout for Varric when the Inquisitor reamed him out in the Great Hall was spectacular. I’ve hadn’t seen Era’Tua so livid since the day he discovered the Grey Wardens’ betrayal. We all trod on eggshells for a week after.

_Bianca Davri… It’s complicated._

Of course I was bloody jealous once I’d figured out how that woman had him wrapped around her little finger. I was piqued enough to avoid him myself for the next four weeks. A round trip to the Exalted Plains to oversee the construction of a bridge kinda helped me calm down about it. That, and a fling with a rather dashing Orlesian scout who’d overnighted at our camp (though humans are all arms and legs and awkward angles and have none of the solidity of my own kind).

I next encountered Varric when we were hunting down some ancient temple in the Western Approach. It was a Maker-forsaken place filled with derelict mine claims, overrun with hyena, and bedevilled by a relentless wind that howled and mourned through the twisted rock formations. Oh, let’s not forget the spiders.

Varric numbered among those in the Inquisitor’s party who came into camp late afternoon, sunburnt and ragged about the edges after a tussle with demons during the closure of a Fade rift half a day’s ride out into the desert.

“How’re you doing, stranger?” I asked from where I was writing a report.

He sank down on a fold-out chair, clearly grateful to be in the shade. His hair had come loose from its tie and his skin had a more than generous redness to it that looked painful. “Ah, Fox, how is it that no matter where I see you, you always look like you’ve sprung fresh from a dream?”

My cheeks were aflame in an instant and I had to squint at my cramped scrawl until I mastered myself. After all these months, he still had this effect on me. “You flatter me, Varric.”

“You are a sight for sore, sun-blinded eyes.”

I offered him a cautious smile. “It’s good to see you too. How’ve things been since…” Immediately I regretted my choice of words. The last time I’d seen him, he’d been smarting from the entanglement with Bianca.

He read my reticence in an instant, and his face became strained. “I’ve had my ups and downs.”

“About…”

“Bianca.” He whispered her name.

I nodded. “I’m sorry if—”

He waved away my apology as if it were a fly. “It’s…complicated.”

“I gathered as much.”

Varric gave a soft chuckle. “We go back a long way. A lot of water under the bridge.”

“A river you’re not going to cross anytime soon.” I sighed.

He inclined his head but didn’t say anything.

“You look like you could use a cool-down,” I said to him by way of changing the subject. “When we came here a few days ago we discovered a small miracle not too far off.”

He straightened, clearly interested. “The way you’re smiling about it right now suggests that you’re quite pleased with what you’re about to share.”

I halfway lifted my hand to my lips before I realised what I was doing. “It’s marked as ‘the Intrinsic Pools’ on an old mining map but it’s far more beautiful than that. We’re going to suggest that the Inquisitor go take a look around later. You know how he is about his herbs and things. We’ve taken samples of blood lotus there, and a variety of spindlewort that may have additional curative properties.”

“You got me at the ‘pools’ part. Can a tired dwarf soak his feet there?”

I nodded. “That’s the idea. Though I’d keep an eye out for the tuskets in the area. They’re omnivorous and one of them ran off with one of the scouts’ trousers yesterday.”

Varric snorted laughter. “What was one of the scouts doing pants-less?”

“You’ll see the attraction of going pants-free when you get there,” I said then immediately felt my face aflame as I said it.

This just caused fresh peals of laughter from Varric to the point where I joined in to cover my embarrassment.

Most importantly, we’d avoided the one topic that was pretty much guaranteed to sour my mood—Bianca Davri. I did and I did not want to know more about her, why she caused such a shadow to cloud Varric’s eye whenever her name was brought up. The cogs in my mind were turning trying to figure out the connection between Bianca the dwarf and Bianca the crossbow; it was doubtful that Varric was going to be so forthcoming about the information. But whomever names a deadly crossbow with a woman is clearly saying something. I hated the woman just then. With which poison darts must she have wounded him?

Closer to evening, the party headed down for the water’s edge. It grew darker earlier in the heart of the canyon’s twisty mazes but it didn’t grow cooler until much later. The roar of the waterfall was a welcome greeting, and the spray that misted the air brought glorious relief to sandy, sunburnt skin, and some relief from the baking heat.

Dorian glared at the water then glared at our Inquisitor as Era’Tua stripped down to his skin and plunged headfirst into the pool.

“I am most assuredly _not_ swimming in _that_!” Dorian exclaimed. “There might be eels or crabs or _something_ that will brush up against my leg. Or nibble at my nether bits.”

“What’s up with you, Dorian? It’s perfectly fine. See?” Era’Tua spat water in our general direction then submerged, only to reappear a few feet further away doing backstroke.

Sera was the next to shed all her clothes and plunge in with a “last one in’s a dirty nug butt.”

I took up my post—after all, someone had to watch out for the thieving truskets—while the top brass of our illustrious organisation splashed about like a bunch of ankle-biters. Granted, we all needed our down time and after everything that we’d all been through thus far, I was glad we could grant them this Maker-blessed moment of fun and tranquillity.

Varric, however, was more circumspect. He’d shed his tunic— _Maker’s breath don’t look—_ and had rolled up the hem of his trousers. He paused, faced turned towards me. “What, you’re not joining us?”

I tapped my breastplate. “Sorry, on duty, ser.” I winked at him.

“Oh, that’s a pity.”

“Go on.” I waved in the others’ general direction.

He gazed after them for a short bit then smiled at me. “Ah, Fox, I’m not much of a swimmer. Now if this was a lovely bath with some gorgeous ladies in attendance, it might be a slightly different matter.”

I shrugged. “Well, it _is_ , almost.”

“Hah!” He trod about in the shallows. “Besides, I’m not fond of crabs and I _have_ seen something vaguely resembling them.”

“How would crabs get in the middle of the desert?” I wondered.

“This wasn’t always desert.”

“Can you imagine what it was like?”

He hummed, stroking his chin. “That would make an excellent story. Maybe if Chuckles had come down with us he’d—”

“Have droned on for quite a bit,” I finished for him.

“Indeed.”

We both laughed.

Early evening turned into night-time, however. We sent up for lanterns and an alfresco repast that was about as Orlesian as we could get with travel rations. Someone had discovered two bottles of Fereldan perry, and things became quite jolly. Varric convinced me to go off duty (Era’Tua’s insistence that I join their esteemed company possibly had something to do with that) and we sat around a makeshift table swapping tales that were each more outrageous than the one before.

Then again, there was something quite magical about sitting there beneath a brilliant scattering of stars accompanied by the never-ending crash of that waterfall that had as its counterpoint the constant plinking and croaking of frogs. Somehow the distant, high-pitched yammering of hyena didn’t quite seem as ominous.

And, somewhere close to midnight, Sera got it into her head that we should all go for a swim. Again. The water was warm, the air balmy, and her suggestion certainly seemed like an excellent idea. After those shots of perry, that is. Clothing was discarded and we slipped, fishlike between the reeds and into the water.

One might say that dwarves aren’t natural swimmers, but we surfacers are adaptable, and all my childhood memories of deep riverine pools high up in the foothills of the Frostbacks returned to me—only the water was much colder there and we weren’t as tempted to linger in the shallows back then. Though it was dark, our eyes had adjusted to the gloom, and one of the moons was near rising, so soon it would become the different kind of duskiness I knew and associated with the Western Approach.

Say what you like about this barren wasteland, it has a beauty all of its own for its stark vistas and wind-carved rock monoliths. While Ferelden will forever be etched in my heart for its clear rivers and its lofty, snow-capped peaks, a part of me will remain in the Western Approach for a long time.

This night, with us splashing about, the water drying on our skins, our smiles catching the starlight, is one of those memories. Perhaps emboldened by the liquor and remembrances of my capers as a young woman, I was lost much of my usual reserve. Perhaps Varric himself remembered other, more carefree times, before his heart had been weighed down. Or perhaps it was merely because I was there, and he liked what he saw. He is a man, after all. Let us not forget that.

We were seated in a shallow cove, mostly obscured from the others. Thinking back I cannot recall what we spoke about, only that we laughed, a lot, and then we kind of leaned into one another. His lips were tentative on mine, almost as if he were apologetic about the kiss. We paused, our breaths mingling. Somehow his hand was on my thigh.

“I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his head as he pulled back.

Bianca’s name went unspoken between us. I cursed her then, silently. But what else could I do?

“I should get back,” I said, and plunged back into the water to where Sera was attempting underwater handstands to rather comical (and unfortunate) effect.

In Varric’s tawdry romances, the hero will rush after the maiden, he’ll press her against a tree or a wall and he will claim her lips. He will declare his desire for her. But this was not one of those stories.

* * * *

Events escalated after that brief reprieve; we were kept busy and I faced more dangers than I care to elaborate on—they’d fill volumes and I’m certain no one would truly believe me. Or mayhap they’d provide excellent fodder for a certain Master Tethras’s fiction.

During the latter months we saw little of each other; he did not always accompany the Inquisitor on his missions, and often I was engaged on missions of my own, which were fraught with danger. I wasn’t even near Skyhold when the whole thing with Corypheus went down, and by the time we returned, Varric had already departed for Kirkwall, and I figured that was that. The end of that particular chapter.

Yet try as I might, I could never quite put that one almost-kiss out of mind.

What would have happened that night had things gone further?

However in my line of work it doesn’t help to have too many attachments, beyond my commitment to the Inquisition. Considering that there was no magical ending after we put down the Big Bad, we still had a few small rifts to close. We still encountered troublesome rogue templars and mages, and let’s not even talk about that sortie down into the Frostback Basin. I garnered new respect for the Avvar, let me tell you.

The Inquisition didn’t just change Thedas, but it most certainly shaped the lives of the people who formed part of this organisation, and I’m glad that I was involved from the very beginning. Yet I didn’t need to be a storyteller to understand that the organisation itself had become unwieldy, cumbersome. It was increasingly troubling that we were riddled with spies as a new threat reared its head in the form of Fen’Harel and his agents. Not to mention the Qunari waiting in the wings and pushing across Tevinter. So while it did not come as a shock to me when Era’Tua announced the disbanding of the Inquisition after that council meeting, I was deeply concerned for the future of the fragile equilibrium we had achieved.

Beyond that, I wasn’t sure if I was _quite_ ready for retirement myself, though I couldn’t quite see what use I might be for those who continued—the Spymaster has never liked me, and I’ve been too scared to ask why.

Yet there is a little epilogue of sorts to this tale. Of course there is. You don’t expect me to leave you hanging, do you? And of course it involves a certain Master Tethras. (I can practically hear you begging.)

We lingered in Halamshiral for a week after the council. Resilient as our former-Inquisitor is, he needed time to rest up after… Well. What happened to him. He was not a happy man, for numerous reasons. At the time, he didn’t go into great detail as to what had happened on the other side of those accursed mirrors, but eventually we discovered that it involved that elven apostate Solas, whom had been a close friend of his. The fact that he’d harboured that viper so close to his breast all those years bothered him. Immensely, and beyond the loss of his arm.

Added to that was Dorian’s announcement that he was to return to Tevinter so soon after having come back. I think he wanted to hold onto as much time for them together as possible before the inevitable separation. My heart bled for both of them.

I was at odd ends that last day. Our quarters were in a hubbub with all the packing and folks running around countermanding orders. Charter kept me busy enough, but I couldn’t help but pause every once in a while and stare at small, seemingly inconsequential details trapped in the cracks on the flagstones. Or gaze at the clouds through the window. All this, that I’d been part of, finished.

I was not ready to return home. I wasn’t even sure I knew where home truly was in all of southern Thedas. I wasn’t still that young woman who would happily tend her neighbour’s sheep. My needlework was still so atrocious, there was no way I’d be helping my mother in her trade; I supposed I could speak to Father, perhaps assist him with his business, but a small weevil of suspicion rested on my heart. My parents would no doubt arrange a suitable marriage for their wayward daughter now that the Inquisition was done. I was not ready to have babies, be a wife to some man I hardly knew.

“Fox.”

That simple utterance shocked me to stillness, and I had to draw a deep breath before I could turn to face him.

Varric’s smile was small and I swore I glimpsed the same sadness that lodged in my heart in his gaze.

“Master Tethras.” I inclined my head.

“Charter’s got you running about like a blue-arsed baboon.”

I laughed. “I didn’t know there were blue-arsed baboon. Sounds…exotic.”

“Hey, it’s Rivaini thing.”

“Yes.” I huffed out another sigh. “This is it then. You’re going back to Kirkwall to go be important. We’re all scattering to the four quarters.”

“Stories end,” he said. “Others begin. We can’t all be heroes.”

I raised my brow. “Dunno, you seem pretty much larger than life.”

“Oh, that. Always the storyteller, the faithful friend. Never truly the hero.”

“Right.” Throat unaccountably tight, I pulled the lid over the crate of documents I’d been checking. Damn it. Where had I put the hammer?

A warm hand closed over the top of mine. “Fox?”

“It’s nothing.” I faced him again, surprised to see his eyes brighten with what I suspected were tears.

“It’s not nothing. I wanted to thank you today but then I… I realised that I don’t want to write ‘the end’ on this particular chapter.”

“Oh.” I swallowed and prayed to the Maker that my heart didn’t thunder its way right out of my chest.

“Damn it, I’m not good at this.”

“What? The esteemed Master Tethras is finally at a loss for words?” I didn’t think my smile was genuine.

He still hadn’t removed his hand from mine and when I tried to pull away, he brought his other hand down to close the trap. “What I mean is, Lace Harding, I find myself surrounded by all manner of people. And my recent...elevation in status…means that I am suffering a dearth of friendly faces when I’m seated on the viscount’s chair. A little bird told me that you _may_ be available to consider alternative employment…”

I tried to laugh away my shock, take that fatal leap over the edge. With my free hand I cupped his cheek, beyond terrified that I was taking liberties where none should be dared. “Is this what I think it is, Varric, a proposition of sorts.”

He actually blushed, and his breath caught. “You’d be suitably compensated, of course.”

“And there would be…benefits, I assume?”

The slightest of nods.

“And other…impediments…” I had to ask.

A flash of pain but then resolution firmed his lips. “There comes a time when a man needs to let go of his past. I can’t promise that things will be all moonlight, kisses, roses and dancing nugs, and there may be times when we’ll hare off on mad ventures—”

“Just not the Deep Roads.”

“No.” He shuddered.

Dare I say yes?

“You have been a good, true friend to me, Fox. A friend discovered in an unexpected place, unasked for. And I admit I’ve been blind and pig-headed about it, but…you’ve always been there. Your kindness. Oh bugger it, I’m going to back myself into a corner here.”

That same spirit that had me saying yes to Charter, about guiding the initial Inquisition forces all those years ago had me grin. Bianca cast a long shadow, of that I was aware, but this man…

“Yes, Varric Tethras. A hundred times yes. I’m feeling reckless. I’ll probably regret this in a week’s time but hey, what the hell, right? I’ve always had a knack for trouble. And look where that’s gotten me.”

In Varric’s tawdry romance novels, the love interest would’ve kissed the girl. This isn’t one of those stories, but that’s not to say that moonlight, kisses and roses won’t feature in one of the sequels. Or dancing nugs, for that matter. And for that I’ll become an avid reader.


End file.
